


Sweet Baby I Need Fresh Blood Vignettes

by Fickle_Obsessions



Series: Sweet Baby, I Need Fresh Blood [8]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Battle, Blood, Coming Untouched, Competition, First Kiss, Gunshot Wounds, M/M, Murder, Threesome, mild jealousy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 02:34:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8039071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fickle_Obsessions/pseuds/Fickle_Obsessions
Summary: From time to time I write short things on tumblr about vampire Founding Fathers, find them here.





	1. Ben Cares for a Wounded Washington (Benwash)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An ask came in for a human trying to save their vampire lover. Ben was the natural choice.

“The wound heals much too slowly,” Ben says, softly but with enough feeling to hopefully gently impress upon Washington the need to worry.

“And yet it does heal,” Washington reminds him. “We only need time.”

Ben frowns, looks down at his hands and sees the dark blood gathered under the nails, worked into the ridges on his fingertips. He’d had to dig the musketball from Washington’s chest after he’d been shot, fallen of his horse, hot panic flooding through him as Washington convulsed beneath him as Ben struggled to get a grip on slick iron. He’d cleaned his hands as best he could, but they hadn’t had much water. Their only shelter now is the bare canopy of a tree and the hope that the wide trunk will shield them from being seen from the road.

“We out to try to-” Ben starts to say.

Washington cuts him off, “Prince Rupert’s dragoons are still in the town, killing all the wounded they find. Now is not the time to risk attracting attention.” He reaches out and puts his hand on Ben’s neck to soothe him. “We only need time, so all that you must do is be patient.”

Ben takes Washington’s hand and pulls it up to his face, rubs his cheeks into the palm. “I wish you’d take my offer.”

“Patience, Benjamin.”

Ben sighs unhappily, but doesn’t press any further for now. He hefts up Washington’s heavy cloak around his ears while he frets. It was bitterly cold, and though it feels so terribly wrong to accept Washington’s cloak when he is leaning back weakly against the trunk of a tree with a hole in his chest Washington had chided him to remember that the cold alone cannot kill him. What went unsaid was the the cold could kill Ben. Just as the dragoons that had been harassing the baggage train of the Earl’s retreating troops could have just easily shot Ben as they did Washington.

Washington hadn’t even wanted to fight. War is a hobby he prefers to engage in when every member of his family is as strong as possible, but Ben simply couldn’t bear not joining the Parliamentarians in their fight. There would be time enough for future battles, Hamilton had pointed out, but Ben couldn’t imagine not joining this one. He regrets it now, understands a bit better that there will be no easy victories. They fought the Royalists to something of a stalemate yesterday, and Washington, in an attempt to be cautious, had wanted to avoid travelling right alongside with the bulk of army. Instead of traveling in safe discretion, they’d accidentally blundered into Royalist troops harassing the baggage train, and Hamilton and Arnold have no way of knowing where they are. 

Ben makes himself wait for as long as he possibly can before he peels back Washington’s jacket to check on the wound. “It’s still bleeding,” he says unhappily. It’s a slow, slower than when Ben’s fingers were buried in it, but Washington’s skin, always pale is now almost translucent, is starting show the blue veins beneath it.

“Drink,” he says, suddenly barking it as an order. “You must.” He cannot stand this anymore.  
Washington shakes his head, weaker than Ben has ever seen him. “It’s dangerous at the best of times, but now? Absolutely not.”

He doesn’t seem to realize that Ben is not going to be dissuaded. “You must,” he says again. He pushes the cloak back from his shoulders, pulls the collar of his shirt open. He tugs at Washington’s shoulders until he tips forward and tries to tuck Washington’s face into his neck. He tenses just a little in anticipation when Washington sighs against the skin. But rather than a bite he gets two strong hands on his biceps, pushing him back.

“Sir, please,” Ben says, feeling desperate.

Washington holds him at bay a moment, but for the first time Ben feels as if he might be able to overpower Washington if he were to try. “It’s far too tempting to take it from the neck,” Washington says. He pauses, hesitates again before he capitulates. “Your wrist.”

Ben pulls at his shirt sleeve with numb fingers, gets it out of the way before he holds it up for Washington to take. As Washington lifts Ben’s wrist up, draws it to his lips, Ben takes a few deep breaths. He doesn’t want to make a sound when Washington bites. But despite his best efforts he does gasp when Washington’s teeth pierce his skin. It hurts, it always hurts, but this time he’s afraid. Not of Washington, but of what could yet be before the end of the night. Ben tamps down harder with his control, makes himself perfectly silent and still while Washington drinks. He feels only relief when Washington takes two long swallows of Ben’s blood. Then he pulls away.

It hardly seems enough. Ben tries to return his wrist, press it back up to Washington’s lips. “A little more, sir. You can. I’m alright.”

Washington shakes his head again, his eyes are closed and it looks as if he’s trying to forget for a moment that Ben is even there. His not flushed, he didn’t take enough, but his skin doesn’t seem quite so thin and papery. Eventually Washington opens his eyes again, looks down at Ben with an expression Ben can’t really place. It’s most definitely thoughtful and fond, but beneath that there is something that seems very much like sadness.

Worried, Ben tries again to offer his arm. Washington looks down at the wrist still held his hands. Two long trails of blood are slipping slowly down Ben’s forearm and will soon stain the white linen of his shirt. Washington doesn’t let it go to waste. He licks Ben’s skin clean while reaching into his pocket, pulling out a handkerchief. He ties it tightly around Ben’s wrist, and makes Ben hold it up to his chest, above his heart.

“Are you sure it was enough?” Ben asks, the ground beneath them seems to have become a little less solid. It’s shifting beneath Ben’s knees. Washington reaches out again for his shoulders, and it stops.

“It’ll be enough,” Washington promises. He pulls Ben toward him, presses Ben’s head to his shoulder and draws the cloak back up around his neck. Ben relaxes against him, though he thinks he ought to check the wound again. A little later he feels Washington’s fingers comb through his hair, hears Washington say, softly, “It was more than enough.”


	2. Ben Feeds for the First Time (HamBenWash)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An ask came in on tumblr that was like, "Ben totally creamed his pants the first time he fed, right?" and yeah, they were right.

It takes very little time for Ben to answer Washington when he asks if Ben would like to be made as he is, made a vampire, because he has been thinking about it for years. He’d realized early on that, after all, it was the logical conclusion of Washington’s patronage. 

He answers yes because he wants what they have, the option to alternate years of study with years of war and then back again. He can spend a lifetime learning, and another lifetime fighting, and retire from both for a decade before taking them up again. His only hesitation is the killing. Actually he thinks that is why Washington waits so long to ask him, though he tries to blame it on the sorry fact that Ben will not bruise when he is a vampire. Though Ben smiles at Washington’s wistfulness he doesn’t believe him. He thinks often of the fact that if he were to refuse then Washington would not, could not let Ben leave with all their secrets. 

Ben answers yes, making his own death at Washington’s hand a moot point, and the death of others at Ben’s hand an inevitability. 

Ben does not know what to expect when he finally rises from Washington’s ministrations with no heartbeat, no need to breathe but for the habit, all his body quiet except for a thirst that is fierce enough to be painful. But he certainly does not expect Washington to show him his first victim with his arms around Ben’s waist, pressing Ben safely back against his chest. He does not expect his victim to be quiet and still, suppressed under Hamilton’s will and uninterested entirely in the proceedings around him. 

He expects to hesitate, but the thirst is terrible and the heartbeat under the man’s skin is inescapable. He marvels that Washington could spend years listening to Ben’s without going mad, without losing control because Ben can hardly endure it for just a few minutes. Hamilton bids the victim to come close to Ben, to stand right in front of where he is held in Washington’s arms. Ben seeks the vein in the man’s neck with all the urgency of a hungry, nursing kitten. He hears, just before he bites down, Washington’s voice in his ear saying, “That’s it, my boy.” 

He expects to find killing something to tolerate, finds instead that it is a pleasure he will have to ration. The blood, the life flowing into him feels as hot, as bright, as precious as liquid gold. He feels none of the expected shame or horror. He feels amazing, held carefully in Washington’s arms, listening to the soft encouragement that Washington is murmuring into his hair. 

Faintly he hears Hamilton gasp, feels a finger run lightly over his cheek, “Look how quickly the color comes back.” 

Washington makes a pleased noise, and Ben shudders. He drinks deeper and deeper, in ecstasy, and frowns when he hears Washington firmly tell him, “You must stop.” 

Here at last is the hesitation, coming not at the start of the killing, but the end of it. 

“Stop,” Washington says again, but Ben makes a little whining noise in the back of his throat instead, thinking only a little more, another swallow. It’s coming so slowly now, there must be time. It is too good to waste.

Washington grabs Ben’s hair and pulls without any mercy whatsoever. Ben’s mouth opens on the neck between his teeth with a gasp, and his head his wrenched back from it. The sensations combined -- of desire and satiation, of the pain and pleasure of Washington’s dominion over Ben’s body -- are too much to bear and Ben’s body offers up a familiar solution. Ben moans and convulses through a release that feels different from any he had while alive, but still leaves him sagging, boneless against Washington’s chest. His lungs pull in huge gulps of useless air that do nothing to stop the little touch of electricity coursing up and down his body, leaving trails of fire in its wake. 

Eventually the fire abates, the electricity dissipates, and Washington’s hold on Ben’s hair relaxes. Ben’s head falls forward and he realizes there is a corpse on the floor. He stares at it until Hamilton moves in front of him, looking immensely pleased. He presses against Ben so that he is surrounded, Washington at his back, Hamilton before him. 

“Why did I?” Ben asks, overwhelmed. He turns his head to look at Washington, “Why did you?” 

Washington presses his lips to Ben’s cheek, the corner of his jaw. “You have to stop before they are completely dead, before their last heartbeat. You’ll learn to listen. We’ll help you.” 

In front of him, Hamilton nods as he begins to peel away Ben’s clothes. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen death look so lovely. God when you-” but he doesn’t say anything more. Nor does he let Ben question either of them any further, sealing his mouth over Ben’s and licking past Ben’s newly sharp canine teeth.


	3. Hamilton and Washington After Battle (Whamilton)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An ask came in wanting to know more about the vibe between Hamilton and Washington and thus, this.

He’s going to have to let Hamilton go soon. Washington knows this, regrets it, and he accepts it. Still, every day he thinks, ‘not yet.’

It used to be a battle, this thing between them, skirmishes and melees that Hamilton started half the time expecting to lose. It’s become a dance now, careful steps following precise patterns. It’s slower, cooler, and more courtly. Washington has had decades to get used to the change. It takes a show of power, to get Hamilton’s attention focused on him like he once did easily. Sitting idly will not draw Hamilton’s eye, ignoring him will not spark his ire.

But if they find a battle to amuse themselves with, if Washington lets slip his strength, frightens a line of men into holding fast in the face of what seems like certain death, Hamilton will be drawn to him again.

It starts, because it is Hamilton, with an accounting of Washington’s fault. In the tent, after a briefing, “You left the flank open again.”

Washington does not contradict him.

“You seem to think that because you survive doing it every time you do not need to bother.” It’s hardly complimentary, but Hamilton is pressing into Washington’s space, slipping fingers under his uniform: Prussian blue this time, with a fitting scarlet trim around the collar.

“Are you trying to say I ought to be careful?” Washington asks.

When he looks up at Washington Hamilton’s eyes are dark in the lamplight, unreadable. Then he puts his hand on Washington’s belt, tugs at it and feels the weight of Washington’s sword hanging from it. “I’m saying it embarrasses me when you’re defeated.”

Hamilton is not the first vampire Washington sired. That honor belongs to one that taught Washington the valuable lesson of using abundant caution in his choices, in making it absolutely clear that he will expect much, and fault failure harshly. Nor is Hamilton the second, that was Tilghman, who was solid and steady, and yet still proved that even loyal members of the family have their limits, that one day they will want to leave.

But oh, it was Hamilton that taught Washington how sublime it could be, taking a boy and helping him achieve perfection. As a boy - a slip of a boy, so short and slight - Hamilton had been so fierce. He’d taken the revelation of Washington’s true nature without blinking. Killing made sense to him, death didn’t frighten him. He was impudent, too clever, and yet somehow always perfectly loyal.

Only it’s coming time, and they both know it. It’s been years since Hamilton came to him like this, alone, possessive. Hamilton pushes Washington onto the pallet in the corner of the tent, climbs up into his lap and holds Washington down with a knee on his chest while he strips himself down to his breeches. Hamilton is powerful now, so much more powerful than when he was first made, but Washington can still throw him. Might have back in the heady days when they were new to each other, but Washington lets himself be pinned, lets himself watch as Hamilton bares himself, and meets the dark, dangerous eyes that stare down at him.

Hamilton thinks he’s in control when he shifts his body back, and fists his hands in Washington’s shirt, pulling him up into a kiss. Perhaps he is, but only right until their lips meet. After that he is Washington’s again, held fast in strong arms, opening his mouth wider just because Washington demands it. Hamilton yields his lead, lets Washington set the tempo.

Washington never wonders at himself for keeping Hamilton for almost two centuries, despite their mutual tempers. He never marvels that, though he has a glittering collection of lovers, he is so reluctant to lose Hamilton who now rebuffs him more often then he accepts. Because in this, they have always been perfectly matched, Washington wants for nothing that Hamilton does not immediately give, even his denial. He wants that show of stubbornness when Hamilton refuses to bend his back and kiss him before he sinks down upon Washington’s cock. Wants Hamilton to push away Washington’s hand when it wraps around his length and seek his own release. Wants to hear the frustrated sigh when everything is too much at once for Hamilton to focus on the movement of his hips counter to the rhythm of his hand and the whimper of relief when Washington forces Hamilton to let him take over, stroke him to completion.

Afterward Washington, in a fit nostalgia, will try to be too sweet. He’ll try to show his gratitude by softly stroking Hamilton’s hair away from his forehead, but Hamilton will not melt. He sits up, runs a hand through his hair, and begins to gather his clothes up from the floor. Washington lets him go. Dances don’t last forever.


	4. The Harem Competes for a Prince (All)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An ask came in looking for some competition among the harem, which is a great damn prompt.

Ben is at another ball, contemplating how he will approach the hunt tonight when Hamilton presses up suddenly against his back. 

“I have a secret to tell you,” Hamilton whispers in his ear.

“A secret?” Ben asks, trying very hard not to sound breathless. Alex must have put his lips so close to his skin on purpose.

Hamilton nods, stepping back as Ben turns around to face him. “Yes, and I’m telling you before I tell anyone else because I love you.”

“I find that hard to believe,” he says. When Hamilton looks offended he raises an eyebrow, “John doesn’t know?” 

Hamilton immediately concedes that point, but he waves his hand, dismissing it. “John doesn’t count, though. Not this time. He was there when I found out.” 

“Found out what?” Ben must admit his curiosity is piqued.

“There is a prince here at the ball tonight.” Hamilton waits for Ben’s reaction and grins, delighted, when he gets it. “He’s only prince of some minor Prussian principality, but absolutely everyone will be talking about it soon.” 

Ben looks out over the crowd, scanning every face. “Who is he?”

But Hamilton shakes his head, “Ah, now that would be telling. I will say he’s in a red suit, and he’s just Washington’s type.” 

“Pretty?” Ben asks.

He nods, “Yes, and vain and pretentious. There’s no way that Washington won’t want him. I don’t know anything about his inclinations yet, but between the five of us we are bound to get him.” 

Ben searches for any hint of red in the crowd, then stops a moment to think. “You seem to be implying that you and Laurens won’t be after him yourselves.” 

“I never implied anything of the sort,” Hamilton says, in mock affront. “We will be doing our utmost. I only wanted to give you a headstart in front of the Marquis.” 

Ben frowns, not pleased with the intimation that he needs all the help he can get, but Hamilton is probably right. All Lafayette needs to do to catch the interest of a noble is drop one little hint that Louis XIV is in his bloodline. He starts to say as much but when he looks back Hamilton is already gone. 

 

Lafayette is already playing coy with an older gentleman when John finds him and he’s none too pleased about being pulled away. When they are finally well enough away from the crowd, he hisses, “Well what is it?” rather testily. 

John raises his eyebrows, “And here I am to do you a favor.” 

Lafayette neither defends himself nor apologizes, just makes himself seem softer. He smiles, tugs on John’s jacket and gently prompts him. “Tell me.” 

It’s only because he knows that he needs to get back to Alex that John doesn’t make Lafayette work a bit harder for it. Instead he blurts, “There is a prince here tonight.”

Lafayette perks up instantly. He knows all too well Washington’s taste for noble blood and the rewards one can get if they provide it to him. “Here?” he asks. “Where? Who is he?” 

John smiles, “That would be too easy. Very shortly he will be the man with entirely too many vampires around him.” 

Lafayette pouts at not having the information handed to him. Then he thinks of something, inspiration plainly illuminating his features. “I ought to just follow you to him.” At John’s look, he tips his chin up, “I trust that I can win him from you.”

“Then that would be clever,” John allows. “But I am not going straight to him. I need to find Alex, who I’m quite sure is telling Tallmadge the same news. You could be wasting precious minutes if you follow me.” He laughs when Lafayette immediately abandons him.

 

Arnold might not have found out if Lafayette hadn’t rushed by him. Helpless not to try and thwart any of Lafayette’s endeavors, even something so simple as hurrying, Arnold reaches out and catches his elbow. When Lafayette tries to break free without even looking back, Arnold holds tight. 

“Now where are you running off to?” 

“Oh,” Lafayette says, realizing at last who has caught him. “Arnold. Let me go, there’s a prince here at the ball. As far as I know it’s still anyone’s game.” 

“No one told me,” Arnold says.

“You hate nobility,” Lafayette points out, squirming free from his grasp while Arnold looks suspiciously. “Or they hate you. Which is it again?” 

He’s off before Arnold can do anything more than narrow his eyes at him. 

 

Before coming to the ball Washington had hoped only for a few decent dancing partners and enough foppish young men to feel he has a choice of them rather than having to make do. Instead, he has the pleasure of observing his family stalking and seducing a genuine prince in order to bring him to Washington. The prince is certainly tempting, dressed in red silks and splendid wig, dangling a walking stick with a gold knob at the top from his fingers. He’s delightfully petite, shorter even then Alex, and he is vain, imperious, and clearly just a bit stupid. He’ll make a perfect meal, but Washington is hardly concerned with that. 

How could he be, when Hamilton is practically alight? All his tenacity and brilliance on display as he attempts to outwit everyone but Laurens, who is tucked beside him, moving his hands elegantly as he quotes plays in French, English, and German. And on the other side of the prince Lafayette is preening as only he can, his arrogance made charming by its apparent innocence. It’s as if it never occurs to him not to draw attention to his beauty or his nobility. 

To avoid the appearance of hovering, they must shift and Tallmadge steps smoothly in with a bow. Washington watches with a small smile as Ben asks a few questions so innocuous that the prince can have no idea that his answers are no doubt helping Ben to formulate a strategy on how best to flatter him, how best to draw him from the crowd. And through all this Arnold is taking his own clever road, flirting with the prince’s consort. He stands up straight, squares his shoulders and projects all the easy masculinity her husband lacks along with a convincing interest in her conversation. If he plays his cards well the prince may soon need to turn away from the others to deal with Arnold, and may try do so alone. 

He’s struck not for the first time, how very fine they truly are, but with all of them on display at once he feels more deeply than usual. What riches he has been given, has he found and made. For fear of missing any moment of their competition Washington doesn’t accept a single invitation to dance.


	5. Washington and Lafayette's First Meeting (Washette)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've alluded to how Washington and Lafayette met a few times, but here it is, all written out.

The night had been a rich one for crows and vultures, with heavy losses on both sides the battlefield had been littered with the dead and dying. To make the victory feel more complete, Hamilton had ordered a steady artillery fire through the night to keep the other side from collecting their wounded. The next morning Washington, always curious to find which men had been strong enough to make the night, picked his way through the ruined meadow. 

It’s an old habit of his and a useful one, it allows him to find willing victims or valuable prisoners of war. Today, however, what Washington finds is mostly broken beyond repair: men, horses, guns, wagons all shattered, torn apart, unusable. He presses on, however, the carnage is extensive and he knows that prizes are rarely placed in plain sight. Eventually he comes across the boy. 

Compared to the strange emptiness of a field strewn with silent bodies, the boy is shockingly alive even as he lies there limp and supported by an upturned wagon. His throat flashes as breathes, fast and upset, and his head keeps rolling side to side seeking someone or something. When his eyes at last fall upon Washington he jerks suddenly. He must recognize that Washington is wearing the uniform of the opposing side. 

The sword that the boy had been only limply holding across his lap comes up in a vain attempt to defend himself. He hasn’t the strength, however, to hold it up the entire time it takes for Washington to cross the distance between them. It has fallen to the side by the time Washington is kneeling before the boy, trying to get a better look at his face. He reaches out, curious to see what the boy will do. He flinches sharply, but when Washington’s fingers are kind, when all he does is tilt the boy’s face up into the weak morning sunlight, he relaxes. Though his relief is at best hopeful, and at worst misguided, the boy shuts his eyes and lets Washington take over the effort of holding up his head.

With his eyes still closed, the boy asks for water in French, but Washington has none. Washington stares at him for a moment longer, then looks out over the field. A few hours more without intervention and the fever warming the boy’s skin and parching his throat will take hold and not let go. Even with help it may yet claim the boy. Washington knows very well that mortals are fragile at the best of times, let alone after hours of bleeding from a wounded leg. 

Turning back to the boy, Washington considers his options, and all the while he takes in symmetry of the boy’s face, the full lips and the graceful arch of his brows. Cleaned up, he must be stunning. Washington is still hesitating when the boy’s eyes open again, long lashes lifting up to meet Washington’s, and they are lovely and pleading.

The boy asks for water again, forms his dark lips around the French words for please, and Washington finds he does not care for the thought of denying him twice. His decision made, Washington hushes him, and gets his hands under the boy’s shoulders and knees. He cries out when Washington picks him up, frightened by the jostling of his leg. He wraps an arm around Washington’s neck and clings, but whether from pain or fear it doesn’t matter, he’s soon overcome either way. Washington carries the unconscious boy back to the camp, and places him in care of a doctor. 

 

For three days Washington asks for news as if he wants only to have the matter decided one way or the other. At night, Washington walks quietly through the surgeon’s tent and confirms that boy is still whole, still lovely, and that his chest is still rising and falling with an encouraging strength. On the fourth day, he receives a note while he is conferring with Hamilton, the boy’s fever has broken. He is awake and saying he will speak to none but the man who found him. 

“Have him put in a tent by himself,” Washington tells the soldier. When he returns his attention to Hamilton he finds the boy has a knowing look. 

“Was that about the pretty thing you found discarded on the battlefield?”

Washington tries to look serious, to maintain a useless air of dignity in the face of Hamilton’s teasing. “I have a notion he may be of some importance.”

“Oh?” Hamilton asks. “Well then perhaps I should accompany you when you interview him. My French is still considerably better than yours.” 

“My French is fine, and I’m sure that I will manage without you.”

The allegations made by Hamilton’s smile remain unchanged. 

 

Washington is busy when he’s first told that the boy has been relocated into as much privacy as being alone behind canvas walls can afford in a busy camp. He makes the messenger wait for him to finish his work, and then wait a bit longer as Washington takes care of a few finishing touches. The weather is not very cold, nor is the boy’s tent very far, but Washington knows very well the effect of his appearance when he is booted, cloaked, and wearing both a hat and gloves, especially when all of these items are very fine. 

The boy spoils his entrance a bit by being asleep when Washington enters his tent, but his rest is not very deep and is easily disturbed when Washington sets a chair by his bedside. He stirs, blinks a few times then looks up. His eyes are brown as mink fur, bright and vivid. He stares at Washington at first without any recognition, but it comes quickly enough as Washington watches him carefully. When the boy remembers, he smiles. 

“Sir,” he says, sitting up. “I am glad that you came.” 

Washington keeps his face carefully composed, and asks, “Why is that?” 

The boy’s eyes flick down, shy, but only briefly. “I would say that I wanted to thank you,” his eyes lift again and meet Washington’s with a level a gaze. “But I think perhaps it is too early to do so.” 

“Perhaps,” he agrees. “What is your name?”

The boy begins to tell him, and does not stop for an impressive amount of time. “Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier.”

Washington raises an eyebrow. “Are you quite sure you did not forget any?” 

The boy laughs, and shifts himself to sit up a little straighter. “That is enough of it, I think.”

“I suspect you don’t require people to say the whole of it every time they wish to refer to you.” The boy shakes his head. “What name should I call you?” 

“Choose your favorite, I can answer to them all.” The boy tilts his head, playful to the point of being a flirt. 

Washington’s eyes drift down to take in the curve of his neck. He makes himself look away, “I might require a second performance to be sure.”

He finds himself on the other side of a considering look, Washington is not the type to fidget under the scrutiny, he sits, straight backed and very still until the boy speaks again. “Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette.” 

Years of practice allow Washington not to react outwardly. A _marquis._ Left behind on the battlefield as if he were a common a soldier. 

Washington must be silent a moment too long, because the boy guesses, “You didn’t know.” He looks pleased.

“I did not.” Washington is not put out to admit it. He thinks over the enormous name, and plucks out the syllables that stand out to him the most. He tries it out, “Lafayette.” 

The boy, Lafayette, meets his eye again, gives him a small smile of approval. He smooths the bed covers over his lap, “Did you not ransom me already?” 

Washington shakes his head, “I was not sure you would survive.” 

Lafayette nods, accepting the wisdom of that. He puffs out a tired, thoughtful little breath of air through his nose, “Then my family thinks that I am dead.” He does not say it in a way that implies he is much upset upon their behalf. 

Still Washington offers, “I can write them tonight, if you wish it.” 

“How much will you ask for me?” Lafayette lifts a hand to touch his hair in a casual gesture which comes across as a bit theatrical. Or does until the boy realizes what a state it is in after three days of neglect. He grunts unhappily, bringing up his other hand to get a better idea of the shape of the mess. His lower lip pouts out a bit at what he finds. 

“Don’t fret,” Washington chides. “You look lovely for someone who has cheated death.”

Lafayette gives Washington another small smile, but still begins to comb his fingers through his hair. He looks down as he teases out a tangle, “You have not told me who you are, sir.” 

Washington has a name in this army, but it is temporary, disposable. He’s not inclined at this moment to give it, and not convinced enough yet to give his true name. “I am not a man to be trifled with,” he says instead. 

“Of course,” Lafayette says with a little laugh he tries to keep to himself. “A man, an _Englishman_ , who fights for a cause not his own, and who plucks someone from among the dead without even knowing the worth of his ransom? Certainly that is not someone to be trifled with.” 

It’s rather impertinent, but Washington does not mind the teasing. He likes boys with spirit. It will not do, however, to let the boy’s assumption stand unchallenged. “I had a suspicion.” Lafayette looks up, curious. “Your sword,” Washington points out. “Which, I should say, is safe with me has a silver handle set with a very fine ruby. Not something likely to be in the possession by an anonymous member of the rabble.” 

Lafayette’s smile fades. He attempts now to look less light-hearted, more sober. He stops grooming his hair and sets his mouth in serious line and lifts his chin with the dignity one might expect from a born aristocrat, “You did not answer before. How much will you ask for me?” 

Washington notes the sore spot, the desire to be wanted and not because he is expedient or useful. “I did not say because you did not answer me. Do you wish me to write your family and tell them that you are alive?” 

“I did not answer, because I think it will hardly matter to them one way or the other.” He turns his face away from Washington, just slightly, putting a distance between them that he had not sought before when he was leaning forward, and eager to look him in the eye. “There are not many of them left to receive the news, and those that are stand to benefit from it.”

“It would seem I ought to wait then,” Washington says.

It has the intended effect, Lafayette turns again to look at him. He thinks over Washington’s offer, “You must be quite a gentleman, if you prefer to ransom only with the consent of your prisoner.” 

Leaning forward, Washington reaches out and tucks a stray lock of the boy’s hair behind his ear, and lets the tip of his fingers, still gloved brush the boy’s neck. Lafayette gives him every response he could hope for, his lashes lowering just a fraction, lips parting just slightly, and his body held still in ready anticipation for more.

Washington sits back, “While you are here in this camp you are under my purview. You are essentially mine,” he says, and _oh,_ but Washington does like the sound of it. From the look on the boy’s face, he does as well. “And I tend to treat my things with care.” 

Having given the boy plenty to think about, he stands, and turns to leave. 

“Sir,” Lafayette calls out almost immediately. “I-You did not tell me your name.” 

He takes only a moment to consider his answer. “Washington, but do not ask for me. I will come to you when I choose.” 

Lafayette presses his lips together, and nods. As he leaves, Washington’s keen hearing picks up the boy’s soft whisper. “Washington.” 

 

It is only a few days later that Lafayette contrives to get himself in Washington’s arms by saying that he is much on the mend, and proving it by showing Washington that he can stand unassisted. Whether the bravado in taking a few steps is real or for show, the effect is the same, a near fall and a neat catch. Once caught Lafayette settles himself shamelessly against Washington’s chest. Washington allows it a moment, before he sweeps the boy up and returns him to bed. 

Stubbornly, Lafayette hangs on to Washington’s neck after he is settled down, makes Washington sit with him upon the little cot. He says softly, “Sir,” and moves his mouth hopefully near to Washington’s. 

Though he has every intention of fulfilling the request, Washington makes him wait until he has looked his fill. His eyes travel over the boy’s face until just a moment after insecurity begins to color his expression. The doubt tries to bloom is swept away immediately when Washington presses his lips over Lafayette’s. 

The boy tastes sweet, tastes new and raw, and in the exhilaration of getting what he wants Lafayette’s heart beats a rapid tattoo. The sound of it is deafening to Washington’s ears. He puts his lips under Lafayette’s jaw, right where the vein is jumping under the skin, and the boy sighs. Washington thinks about all the lovely things this boy, this marquis and cousin to a king, would let Washington do to him, would beg for Washington to do, in time. He sucks lightly on that pulse and feels it quicken. Then he gently pulls Lafayette’s arms from about his neck. 

Lafayette looks up at him, unhappy. “When you are well,” Washington tells him.

“That will be a long time from now,” Lafayette says, frowning until Washington traces a fingertip around his full bottom lip. 

“I am patient.”

“I am not,” Lafayette insists, trying to catch Washington’s wrist and bring his fingers back to his lips. 

He pulls free of the boy’s grasp and takes his chin in a firm hand. “You will be,” he says. Lafayette does not protest, held in check by Washington’s grip, by the tone of his voice. “Because you are mine,” Washington reminds him. “And I treat my things with care.” 

Lafayette all but melts, and the effect is so inviting that Washington has to force himself to let go. Cut loose from Washington’s touch, Lafayette sighs and lays back down against the cot, “Will you go now? Can you not stay a little while more?” 

Washington thinks that he should go, should set the boundary, the expectation. He stays, saying airily, “I can stay a moment or two longer.” 

From the bed Lafayette smiles, turns his face into the pillow and gives Washington a glimpse of his neck. “Have you decided how long you will keep me?” 

“Have you?” Washington counters.

If Lafayette thinks he is being coy by not answering he must not realize how much of his thoughts show on his face. Washington reminds himself that he is patient. He will not rush.


End file.
